It was a quiet, hazy evening in Valentine, the kind where the dust hung thick in the air, and the fading sunlight painted the town in shades of amber and rust.

The saloon was lively but not overcrowded, the hum of conversation mingling with the clink of glasses and the occasional burst of laughter.

You figured it was as good a place as any to drown the weight of your thoughts in a stiff drink or two.

You leaned against the bar, your fingers idly tracing the worn wood as you exchanged pleasantries with the bartender.

He was an older fellow with a quick wit, already halfway through mixing your drink when the saloon doors swung open with a creak.

Two men stepped inside, their presence commanding enough to make the usual clamor dip for a moment before the regulars resumed their chatter.

You glanced their way out of mild curiosity—just two strangers, or so it seemed at first. You didn’t know it then, but those men were Arthur and Lenny.

Lenny had just returned from a job gone sour, one where Micah had been taken by some outlaws, and Dutch’s solution was as predictable as it was reckless—send Arthur and Lenny into town and let the whiskey do the thinking.

Arthur’s sharp blue eyes swept the room, taking in the saloon’s usual clientele.

His gaze landed on you, and for a brief moment, something flickered there. A hint of interest, maybe. Or curiosity. Either way, he tipped his hat slightly and approached the bar with that easy, unhurried gait of his.

“Well, now,” he drawled, his voice smooth but tinged with a Southern twang that made it sound both warm and rugged, “ain’t this a sight for sore eyes. What’s a fine thing like you doin’ sittin’ here all by yourself?”

His tone was playful, with just enough charm to keep it from sounding insincere. Beside him, Lenny cast a glance your way, managing a polite nod before turning his focus back to the bartender.

“You waitin’ on someone,” he asked, his lips curving into a lopsided smile, “or can I keep you company for a spell?”